Quentin wondered did other people's parents bicker as much as his did. Probably. It wasn't something they talked much about at school. He knew one thing, which was that the other boys" mothers did not talk to them like his mother did.
Sara Barry always called him her Sweet One, and the Light of her Life. Or something else very fancy. Other boys" mothers called them great galumphing clods and useless good-for-nothings. It was very different. And although his mother loved him to bits, she was always saying it, she never took him seriously about not wanting to be an accountant. "But my sweet boy, you are only twelve."
Or thirteen or fourteen. By the time he was sixteen, he knew he had to say something.
"I do not think I'm cut out for accountancy, Dad."
"No one's cut out for it, boy. We have to work at it."
"I won't be any good at it, truly."
"Of course you will, when you're involved. Just concentrate on getting your exams like a good lad."
"I'm way behind at Maths, and honestly, I'm not going to get any good exam results in anything. Isn't it better to be prepared for that now rather than it coming as an awful shock?"
"Do you study, do your homework?" His father's frown was mighty.
"Well, yes, I do, but ..."
"There you are. It's just nerves. You're too like your mother, highly strung, not a good thing for a man to be."
Quentin failed his exams quite spectacularly.
The atmosphere at home was very hostile. It made it worse that his parents blamed each other much more than they blamed him.
"You upset him with all that pressure that he has to be a dull boring accountant and fill your shoes," Sara Barry hissed.
"You fill him up with nonsense, mollycoddling him and taking him shopping with you like a poodle," Derek Barry countered.
"You don't care about Quentin, all you care about is having two Barrys in that plodding office to annoy Bob O'Neill," Sara snapped.
"And what do you care about, Sara? You only care that the dull plodding office, as you call it, makes enough money for you to buy ever more clothes in Haywards."
Quentin hated hearing them shout over him. He agreed to repeat the year and have extra tuition. Derek Barry was glad that he had never mentioned any actual timings to Bob O'Neill.
One of the Brothers up at the school was a gentle man with a faraway look. Brother Rooney was always to be found in the school gardens, digging here, planting there. He used to teach a long time ago, but he said he wasn't good at it, he would drift away and tell the boys stories.
"That would have been nice," Quentin said.
It wasn't really, Quentin, it was no use to them. I was meant to be putting facts into their heads, getting them exams. So I sort of drifted out to the garden, which was where I wanted to be in the first place, and I'm as happy as Larry now."
"Aren't you lucky, Brother Rooney? I don't want to be an accountant at all!"
"Then don't be, Quentin, be what you want."
I wish I could."
"What do you like? What are you good at?"
"Nothing much. I like food. I love beautiful things and I like helping people enjoy themselves."
"You could work in a restaurant."
"With my parents, Brother Rooney? Can you see it?"
"Well, it's good, honest work, and they'd get used to it in time. They'd have to."
"And what about the bit where God says, "Honour thy Father and thy Mother"?" Quentin smiled at the older Brother.
"It only says honour them, it doesn't say lie down like a doormat and go along with any of their cracked schemes." The old man with the gardener's hands and the faded blue eyes looked as if he was on very safe ground.
"Is that what you did, Brother Rooney?"
"I did it twice, boy, first to get into the Order. My parents wanted me to work on the buildings in London and bring in big money, but I wanted peace, not more noise and bustle. They were very put out, but I never raised my voice to them, and it worked. Eventually. And then when I was in here I had to fight again to get out of the classroom and into the garden. I explained over and over that I couldn't hold the children's attention, couldn't make them understand things, but I'd love to make the garden bloom, that I could serve God best that way, and that worked. Eventually."
I wonder how long is eventually." Quentin sounded wistful.
"You'd be wise to start at once, Quentin," said Brother Rooney, picking up his hoe and getting at some of the hard-to-reach weeds at the back of the flowerbed. "Eventually is now, Father, Mother," Quentin said that evening at supper.
"What's the boy talking about?" His father rattled the paper.
"Derek, have the courtesy at least to listen to your son."
"Not when he's talking rubbish. What does that mean, Quentin? Is it something you got from one of your loutish friends up in the place we thought was going to make a man of you and give you an education? Nicely fooled we were, too." Derek Barry snorted.
"No, Father, I don't have many friends as you may notice. I'm not interested in football or drinking or going to the disco, so I'm mainly on my own. I was talking to Brother Rooney, who does the gardens up in the school."
"Well, you might have tried talking to one of the more educated Brothers, one who would tell us what on earth we are to do with you, my darling." This time it was Quentin's mother's turn to look sad and impatient with him.
"You see, I'll never be an accountant. I'll never get the qualifications to get me taken on to study as one. We will all understand and accept that eventually. So why don't we accept it now?"
"And you'll do what with your life, exactly?" his father asked.
"I'll get a job, Father, go out and get a job like everyone else."
"And what about the place in my office I was keeping for you?" His father had lines of disappointment almost etched into his face.
"Father, I'm sorry, but it was only a dream, your dream. We'll all understand that eventually. Can we not understand it now?"
"Oh, stop repeating that gardener's mumbo-jumbo."
"I can't bear telling Hannah Mitchell. She's so proud of her son going to do law like his father." Sara Barry's pretty face pouted. Ladies" lunches didn't look so good from this viewpoint.
"What kind of job?" Derek Barry said.
And Quentin knew that Brother Rooney had advised him well. Eventually was now.
He worked first in a seaside cafe south of Dublin, then an Italian restaurant in the city. Then he got a kitchen and bar job in one of the big hotels. This meant antisocial hours, so he moved out of his parents" home and got a bed-sitter. His father didn't seem to notice or care. And his mother was vague and confused about it all.
And eventually he went for an interview in Haywards store where they needed someone in their restaurant. He was interviewed by Harold Hayward, one of the many cousins who worked in the family firm. This was much smarter than the other places he had worked. More like home, in fact, where he had loved helping his mother with her dinner parties.
And this is exactly what Quentin Barry did, imitate his ow n mother's stylish presentation. Soon there were heavy linen napkins, good bone china, and the best of silverware all on display.
He suggested special afternoon teas, with warm scones dripping in butter, served with little bowls of clotted cream and berries to spread on top . . .
He presided over it all as if he loved being there and as if it were his own little kingdom which he had created.
His mother was not best pleased. Quite a lot of the ladies she lunched with went to Haywards. None of their sons worked at tables.
"You could tell them I'm serving my time until I open my own place," Quentin suggested.
I could, I suppose," his mother said doubtfully.
He was shocked. He had been making a joke, and she took it seriously. What was so awful about doing a job he liked? Good, honest work. Sitting around over coffee afterwards, discussing how to make the place even better. His beautiful mother did not call him the Light of her Life or Sweet One these days. Possibly he had given all that up when he had passed on being an accountant.